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IC Contact [Asgard]

Catch all IC contact post for Will Graham at

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[Note: Will is unlikely to use video unless there is a good need for it. He'd be more inclined to do text until he's made a substantial recovery and becomes more comfortable with voice.]

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[ This might have worked better the first time around. ]

Edited 2014-01-25 03:16 (UTC)

[Good God in heaven, that was not what he was expecting. He can appreciate him being thorough, though.]

So I'd be a muggle, right? Was there no better word? We sound like some sort of defenseless slimy fish. A dog. A sort of woodland creature. You say this Lord Voldemort underestimate us because of a disgust of us—does that transfer over to the rest of your world? I can understand not wanting us to know about magic. I do not imagine that would go over well at all. We'd panic. We'd be terrified. Salem Witch Trials and others throughout the years prove as much. So we can't produce magic, no. But is it understood that we have other means to take care of ourselves, or is there some sort of condescension amongst your people for us? Not that I'm implying you think less of me for not having this heritage, but I would like to know in advance. I've met Professor Snape, as I'm sure you know. He gave me my spot [as a glorified substitute, let's be real] at the school. I gave Sirius Black a dog recently. Very slobbery, prone to snorting—I knew he must have been good people in some way when he took to him so well, despite the nature of the dog. Not much contact with the others, if any. I understand that these are your people, and I would never want to harm another without extreme reason. I know what psychopath means. I work with psychologists and psychiatrists, those that get into the minds of others to help them work through their issues. Confidentiality is just as important with them as it is in my career. I will by no means use any of this information against anyone. I will never mention what you have told me to them, and not to anyone else. I do not want a more intimate conversation with you, which is not to say I find your company undesirable. I will do more homework into this, I assure you. You will know when I have, as soon as I can get it all in order. I will not be subtle about it, but I'll do it a way that won't be all that easy to pick up on. It would, most likely, be best if either you or Professor Snape asked me to leave the school after it. I'll be understanding, not spiteful about it. And I will, before it happens, leave a resignation letter and a booklet on how he can help train his emu. Sound good to you?

You would be, yes. It is an antiquated term, but remarkably resilient. There exists ruder slang, but primarily those refer to muggleborn wizards. Several are common in my time, 'mudblood' will prove to be the most popular through the twentieth century.

Disgust, derision, and a certain sense of paternalism towards and over those without magic is not uncommon. Many wizards (but most especially those of old families) are prone to such attitudes, if by little else than their lacking familiarity with the non-magical world. Our communities are by and large small, and tightly-knit; a child born to two wizards may have almost no exposure to muggles. There is a course taught at Hogwarts to familiarize students in such situations with the basics of non-magical life. For example, when I covered that class briefly in a professor's absence, we discussed automobiles and their growing appearance on the roads.

The International Statute of Secrecy is the law in my world which governs the separation of magic from the broader population, and has only been in place since the 18th century. Increasing suspicion, technological gains, and outbreaks of violence are what initially drove its push. It is a small matter for a skilled witch or wizard to defend themselves against attack, but our weakest -- especially the old and the young -- were increasingly endangered, and some of that danger persists. Societal attitudes towards muggles wax and wane, but most historiographers agree that the passing of the Statute marked a significant rise in muggle/wizarding tensions.

Any condescension you meet with is likely to be mixed with a degree of confusion, and of probable misinformation. I suspect it most likely from those pureblooded.

I think no less of you, Mr. Graham.

If Severus does not propose that you leave himself, inform me, and I will exercise what influence I may -- or at least, I will hound you about it myself. I suggest that if he takes your bait, you might argue with him. Be belligerent, for all that you will be understanding after; he dislikes his authority being called into question.

We are agreed.

Edited 2014-01-25 05:42 (UTC)

So, if I read this properly, it seems that muggles are the ones who you might blame for having to be secret? Yes, we would probably not take it well, there is no doubt about it. But how are we to defend ourselves if there are people in your world who hate us so? If we do not know, we cannot do anything to arm ourselves. Granted, yes, there would be those among us who might take it upon them to try and eradicate your existence. You would have an advantage on us, and we have always been violent. Throughout all of history, mankind (mugglekind?) has been violent. We have fought wars in the name of God, of gods, we have conquered and enslaved. We have taken lands and killed their natives, have refused to believe of them as anything other than savages, have taken everything they ever had as their own and refused to give them much in return, if anything, as years passed. We have been a violent people, and we always will be. You say you do not understand psychopathy, but there must be more than these Death Eaters among you capable of it. Perhaps some sort of alliance with trusted muggles would be useful to you. Our technology has done wonders, both for good and bad. We are all one people, even if our views and abilities are different. Surely some in Asgard have proven themselves to be your equals, even without the magic given us upon arrival.

[Will Graham, social justice wizard/muggle warrior.]

That aside, and perhaps I said too much, you told me you talk to most anyone you know, yes? I am not all that belligerent outside of those who have murdered and finally been caught. [Oh. Wait. Hasn't he been a little bit of that with Albus? Crap. But still! He's not always so overly like that with his coworkers, but Abel Gideon. Eventually, if he returns, he will most likely get that way with Chilton. He doesn't like it, but he will use it if he has to. Birds of a feather indeed.] Usually. If he replies in a manner that calls for it, I can give in return. I'll miss the school, but this is more important. Don't think I have priorities on much else.

[Except for Abigail, who he is never going to mention as knowing her too much. He's not ashamed of her at all. He's worried what might come out if they're not careful.]

Those same wars are fought by wizards, and often alongside. Our communities may be separate, Mr. Graham, but make no mistake -- our histories interweave.

My father was imprisoned for his attacks on muggle children. Two of the boys died, as he did himself just recently in Azkaban. My mother was abandoned while still but a child for her inclinations to magic, and grew up as much an orphan as my brother would later be.

I am well-versed in the goods and the ills of both worlds, Mr. Graham. Violence and hatred are the eternal capacity of man, just as love and acceptance; magic is only another means of their venture. I see you as my equal, but that does not preclude the judgment of your broader society, nor of mine.

And make no mistake, mine is as wanting.

A divided relationship is far from ideal, and it is one entirely of our own building. I take issue with the Statute, but for the time being, those of my world must work within it.

The world isn't working, Mr. Graham, and a people so cut in half are as a house of cards, soon to crumble. Integration is inevitable, and its day will come. It must, lest the decision find itself made for us -- uglier, and the more bitter for it.

[ Not that this got bitter at all itself... ]

I regret that you must leave the school; I think that you would have had a great deal to teach and to give, if our present conversation is any indication. It is not a sacrifice soon forgotten.

A note -- I do not understand 'psychopathy', Mr. Graham, because the vocabulary simply does not exist. Neither have I heard of 'psychiatry' before now. I make a point of staying up-to-date with the non-magical sciences of my day (for magic is itself but the manipulation of the natural world's energies) and yet admit complete unfamiliarity with the term. It strikes me, that given the abundance of years between us, it is a field which may not presently exist.

The years are quickly forgotten, but not always so easily breached. As a well-intentioned reminder only, I hail from 1909.

Edited (fact-checked and psychology was around as 'study of the soul' so IGNORE ME BEHIND THE CURTAIN) 2014-01-25 06:38 (UTC)

I'm sorry about the loss of your father. That must be difficult.

[No he's not. Yes, yes he is. Empathy and all. It sounds like Albus knew his mother, or knew of her, which is more than Will can say. He's not bitter about that at all. No he's not.

Yes, yes he is.

He appreciates the house of cards thing, but it could stand to be creepier. Alas.]

Psychology has moved forward quite a lot since 1909; it was the end of 2013 when I found myself here. Psychiatry is a medical field devoted to studying, treating, diagnosing, and hopefully preventing mental disorders. There are a lot of them, and there seem to be more every year. Newer names for things, splitting one off and combining it to another. Think of it as soup. You can have chicken in your soup, but depending on the other ingredients, you can have several various kinds of soup. The chicken is still an integral part, but you've made it into something different. It's just the soup of a mind.

[Pray no one ever finds about Lecter, because all these food-related metaphors and similes and the wordplay that will come might make someone wonder if Will's not good friends with Lecter because they're both monstrous cannibalistic serial killers.]

In a perfect world, it would be left to someone with a medical degree in the field to diagnosis who is or is not a psychopath. The word has lost meaning as of late, being a go-to explanation for lazy fictional stories. [Guess who doesn't like crime drama shows. Just guess.] Unfortunately, sometimes people can't be forced to sit in a chair and spoken with at length over the whole matter. Too busy out there killing to sit down for long. [Ha. Hah hah.] This does not mean all psychopaths are killers, nor are all killers psychopaths. Psychopaths should still be regarded with wariness. They are noted for having a very profound lack of empathy, and do not have a sense of concern about other people's rights. Only they matter. Other people matter for what they can do to them, if they can control them in some way. There are a lot of tales of them torturing and killing animals as children, because they're one of few things they can exert power over. The thing about psychopaths who turn violent to remember, that must always be remembered, is this: they know exactly what they are doing and the possible consequences of what they are doing. They are the lion in the room. They know as much, and the more intelligent ones know when to play the part of a domesticated, sweet cat and when to strike. I don't have a degree in psych-related fields, but part of my job is understanding the basics and how they work, and using that to analyze. I don't partake in psychoanalysis outside the criminally insane if I can help it. I wouldn't appreciate it being done to me, so I wouldn't go out of my way to do it to anyone else.

[Read: I would stop if I could help it, but I can't. I don't go out of my way, though, because I don't have to. It's all natural.]

"I don't believe that anyone who could see you as boring, Mr. Graham, knows you very well at all. Of course -- it's nearly eight o'clock, I suppose that I should see to some breakfast myself. If you'd like, I've a rather good recipe for scramble." He offers. "In any event, I wish the three of you a more pleasant afternoon. We ought to get a deal of sun in later, despite the cold."

Albus moves to leave, tipping his head one last time to the larger dog.

Edited 2014-01-27 13:12 (UTC)

There's an odd, hardened look at the mention of Will not being boring at all. He's being told something he knows is true but something he would rather not be true. If he could have just gone on being the dog guy who had a weighty job back home, that would have been fine. People getting close is bad. People here getting close? Even worse. He doesn't know how to explain, exactly, what it is he does in a way that makes total sense. It hardly makes sense to him. He's hoping that he stays healthy, stays on his feet, and that no one ever finds out the last thing that happened to Will back home. He can't let anyone get close enough for that to come out, and so keeping people at a further distance it is.

Hopefully, Abigail doesn't press too much. Hopefully, Abigail's father never comes up in her conversations, because Will would rather not deal with that. Deal with the fact of the matter that she's going to have to put up with people who won't take kindly to it and that she's telling their secrets like she didn't with Lecter. Isn't that a selfish thought?

The offer seems to bother him as much as the mere mention of him being interesting, jaw clenching. It could very easily be taken as a man who enjoys his own cooking getting the idea that his toes are being stepped on. In reality...well, it's not something he ever plans on coming out, either. His eyes don't leave Albus, not needing to in order to figure out he's giving a moment's notice to the other dog in the room. It's not until a little tongue wets his palm that he realizes he's supposed to say something in return, because that's just good manners. That's polite. Even though certain people aren't around, he hasn't forgotten what exactly becomes of the rude.

It just doesn't always stop him.

"I'll pass on the recipe." He'll pass on anything that Albus thinks he needs for as long as he can. He might even pass on a glass of water, just to show that he doesn't need anything he can get himself. He's a grown man, no one needs to help him figure out how to make scrambled eggs. Granted, that's not what sharing recipes is about, but he has to put up those walls. "You too. Have a good one."

A good one way, way, way far away from Will Graham.

Edited (omg cannot word before coffee, apparently) 2014-01-27 19:28 (UTC)

Cold. Uncommonly so, something to wrap his jaws around later; it gives him a problem, a puzzle, something to worm over in the days ahead. Picking apart that potential will be a far more delectable thing than any bit of egg and spice.

Albus doubts that he'll like the possibilities, no more than Graham plainly (dis)likes him. But they've already spoken of means and ends, and his ends are already well-decided -- Graham is sharp, he is a almost annoyingly perspicacious, and he has been set upon the proper path to make that of use. It's the measure of the man that blooms interesting now, and the means of handling him.

"For the best," He grants. "Until then, Mr. Graham."

[And, while she's not in a particularly crowded area, the background noise of the audio feed make it clear that she's outside. Especially in the first few seconds of silence, an awkward pause while Abigail isn't sure what to say.

She's not even sure why she's leaving him a message, except to let him know she didn't disappear completely. And to see if he's still around. As much as losing the last connection to home would, in its own way, be a relief, it would also be... weird. (Understatement, but what it would be is something she can't entirely pin down without experiencing it.) And she'd rather at least find out, if he was gone.

So, first the silence, and then:] -- Hi.

[Another pause. Maybe she should have just done text, at least it would avoid these awkward hesitations, but well, she's already started now.]

I was... gone, I guess. I lost my bracelet for a while. I don't know if you knew, but I thought I should tell you I'm back.

[And one more awkward pause for good measure, trying to figure out what else there is to say.]

Maybe you can tell me what I missed? If you're not busy?

[Perhaps she never got to know Will very well (or he wouldn't let her, he's not sure), but he's more than used to awkward pauses. When he teaches, he's fine. When he discusses the more basic aspects of a case, he's fine. But every now and then, every now and then, he can be quite the king of those awkward pauses. Whatever worry she may have about it, were she to voice it, he'd be quick to reassure that it was fine.

Or try to, all things considered. Last he talked to her...not the best thing to leave off on, from what he remembers.]

I didn't know. [Not because he didn't care!] I didn't want to be overbearing, so I haven't made an effort to track your every move. We're all we have here, but I don't want you to think I'm going to be ridiculously overprotective. Smothering. I don't want that. [He doesn't want to get paid housing and make her live with him. He doesn't want to insert himself into every part of her life. She's her own person, and she's got another chance at life. He's not about to constantly remind her of the awful one she left behind.] But I'm glad to hear you're back and there was...some queen from another land came, something to do with elves. There was a fire. She asked for our help, lots of people volunteered. That's about it, I think.

[She doesn't say anything at first, digesting the news, and still not sure how to respond to the first part. The fact that he's not watching her every moment is... kind of a relief, honestly. With, well, everything, up to and including things like earthquakes and elves and fires, she wasn't sure how close an eye he'd want to keep on her.

Freedom still is something she's not entirely sure what to do with, let alone having someone's conscious choice to give it to her laid out.]

Well, that's... about as much excitement as I was expecting. [It's not a joke, even though it kind of sounds like one.] Thanks. And thanks for, um, not tracking me, too. Have you been okay?

[Back home, Will would have all the necessary equipment to track Abigail's every move, had she lived long enough to go to college, to get a job, to blossom. He could have tracked her every purchase, from a simple coffee to a car. It would have been easy for him to let her go and live her life and never contact her again, only to watch her from afar.

It wouldn't have been so beyond him. It might have become an obsession, had he stayed sick. Here in Asgard, though—she's got a new chance. They both have new chances, though hers is a little more important. She's alive. He's just out of prison. Why would he crowd her with that, with death, with a father who wasn't her father and had given her up to a man that had seen to her end?]

I've been fine. [Mostly. Dealing with people he'd rather not, but he's mostly fine.] Getting better, down to two dogs now. [There's a pause, because...what if she wants that?] Do you want me to keep an eye on you? Is that—if you do, I can. If that would make you feel...better about everything.

[Will would cut straight to the complicated question, and right as Abigail's getting ready to settle the conversation into something more like small talk. And complicated is damn near an understatement. Because with that phrasing, a flat-out no is like saying leave me alone, and she doesn't want to do that. She wouldn't be talking to him now if she did.]

I don't need you to smother me.

[Although maybe that's the wrong wording, maybe she does. Maybe she shouldn't be out on her own. Legally, she's not quite supposed to be yet. (Maybe. She's lost a lot of sense of time since she arrived, but she doesn't think her birthday's passed yet; she's still not supposed to be tossed into adulthood quite yet.) Maybe what she needs isn't to claim responsibility for herself, it's to hand it over to somebody with actually morals and ask them to watch out for her.

(And how does somebody do that without tracking, stalking, pushing you into what they want for you? Any role models she has for healthy relationships have been eclipsed by the shadow of her father; and whatever he doesn't loom over, Dr. Lecter is there for. Setting her own boundaries is something she's woefully unequipped for. Sitting back and just letting Will stalk her, or leave her alone, would be so much easier.)]

I don't -- [care? know? understand what you mean? All valid ways to end that sentence, but it's easier to say something else entirely.] -- think there's many way to feel better about things here anyway. Besides trying to stay out of the way when things go crazy.

[In honor of the Earth holiday centering on love, Freya sends out a little gift around this time.

A small box containing a piece of chocolate will appear on your pillow during the day. When consumed, the chocolate’s magic will lift your mood for a short period of time. It’s accompanied by a note.]

Where love might bring about sorrow, it also welcomes joy.

[Don't need. He wasn't asking for need. He was asking what she wanted. Abigail hadn't gotten much of what she wanted, and he was at blame for some of that. She had wanted to go home, but he couldn't give her that. He could take her there, but there was no home for her anymore. The house was tainted, and eventually tainted with her blood again.

But did she know that? Did she...get to that part of her life, had she seen her final moments as Will had been too sick to keep her from?]

I won't smother you. [Smothering implies he'd act on what he sees. Smothering implies tracking her every movement and making it obvious, telling her who not to talk to. It could lead to more harsh words, things he doesn't want to say and is ashamed he even thought. He could track her without ever mentioning it, though if she got involved with someone too obviously unhealthy for her...

...he could try. Would try. Might fail, but nothing new there.] I don't want to make you more uncomfortable here than you already are, Abigail. It's not easy. I don't want to make it worse. [A ghost, a reminder. A reminder of her father, of Jack Crawford, of Lecter. If she never wants to see him except on her own terms, if she never wants him to come around, never wants him to contact her unless it is absolutely necessary...he can be that sort of ghost. He can remain unseen unless he's speaking over the network, but nothing to her. He can be that sort of ghost. He's good at it.] But I have to ask you something, okay? You don't have to answer, but I think it would be good for us to know...where we left off.

What our last memories were. What's the last thing you remember before you found yourself here?

[Loaded. So loaded, but he'd pulled the trigger ten times. He'd pulled it again, all to save her. What was another one?]

[She doesn't want to answer. It would be so easy to refuse, to tell him no and shut the feed, stop the conversation now. She doesn't want to talk about dying. She doesn't want to know if he still trusts Hannibal, if he'll turn around and accuse her of lying for some reason or other.

But maybe it'd be easier to put it all out in the open. She's hid so much and it hasn't done any good for her, some of it only made things worse. And if he doesn't believe her, doesn't trust her.... Well, what can he actually do?

Still. She's tongue-tied for a minute, silent and unsure, and when she responds you can almost hear the stall in her voice.] Being here isn't that uncomfortable. It's not great, but it's not much worse than home. Sometimes it's better. [Like the lack of murder investigation. And the not being locked up in a mental institution. And the nobody knowing about her father. That's all a lot better.

And then, a pause, and quietly:] Both of our last memories, right? So you'll tell me yours, too?

[If she keeps stalling, maybe it will get easier to talk about.]

[This could go two ways, this hesitation. Will thinks so. It's either him being sick and awful to her or her death. What else would cause her to stall so much? She hadn't seemed afraid of him, but he hadn't been shaking and sweating and surrounded by antlers that had already been used to impale a girl.

He has to know. They can't do this otherwise. He has to know who killed her, what she remembers, and he has to know, selfishly, that he's right.

And as far as Will's concerned? No one will know about her father. If she tells, that's her decision. He's certainly never going to bring it up.]

Both of us, that's right. I'll tell you mine. [If she doesn't know, he doesn't want to tell her about her death. He'll lie. She's used to them. He's used to them. What's another one?] Ladies first.

[It's such a shitty thing to fall back on, but it's better than him saying something about how he's the adult, he asked first, she has to answer him.]

[Silence follows again, long enough to almost make it seem like she's decided not to tell him after all, as she tries to figure out what to say. How much to say. How much he might know already.]

Dying.

[It's blunt, harsh, when she finally says it, letting it out there. There's no way to beat around it and make it sound better, and she doesn't try. It's still hard to think about. It still hurts.]

I was dying. For real this time, I think. I blacked out, and I woke up in Asgard.

[And if he wants to know more, either he's going to have to ask, or tell her his.]

Your turn.

[Lies. He was expecting a lie and having to give one in return. But he knows now, he knows for certain that it was Lecter. Does Abigail feel regret for not trusting Will more? Is this a moment of vulnerability? Is her compliance a sort of apology?

She gave. She gave everything. Will has to do the same, not just for himself. He owes her that. He owes her what he couldn't give her before, what Lecter made sure he would never give her, and all he can give her in this strange place, even if when he returns home

if he returns home

it won't do her any good at all.]

Dr. Lecter and I went to Minnesota. The kitchen was covered in your blood. You had died. For real this time. He put evidence that I had done it in my own. He went further and put parts of all those killed by the Copycat there, too. He set me up. He framed me. I was arrested. During transport, I broke my thumb to get out of the handcuffs, took out the guards, and tried to find someone to help. It was just him. He drove us there. We spoke. Scales fell from my eyes. I saw what he was. I saw it, and I was a second from pulling a trigger against him before Jack Crawford pulled one against me. He shot me in the shoulder, and I went into the hospital where I found out how sick I was. Dr. Lecter told everyone that I had forced him to drive us at gunpoint while he sat at my bedside like a concerned friend.

[It all comes out like he's speaking about a dream he has issues remembering, but it's fresh. It hurts. It's a burn and a cut and punch all at the same time. It's far more than she told him. But he'll tell her everything because he helped take that away from her. He'll give her all he can.]

It was him, wasn't it? He did that to you. It was Dr. Lecter.

[It was always Lecter.]

[There's no reason to lie, not really. She might want to, might feel like she should keep her secrets, but it's not going to do anything, really. None of this was her doing, none of this is really something to keep after a direct question. It's not like what her father had her do. Despite the sinking feeling that there has to be one, she can't think of any actual consequence to telling, even if he doesn't believe her. Other than having to think about it, than showing her own stupidity in trusting Hannibal so much. Maybe making him feel guilty, for how it ended up after she ran from him.

But it turns out that doesn't matter, that he knows. He knows about her dying, he knows who did it. He knows what Hannibal's plan was. He was in the middle of it. Hiding it wouldn't do any good anyway.]

Yes. [Her voice cracks.] It was him. He told me... he told me he was going to... that they'd think you were a killer. That he'd killed Marissa, and other people. He didn't say how many. More... more than my dad, he said.

[He'd hugged her, talked to her like he always did. He said he wanted to see if she was like her father. He apologized for not protecting her, right before attacking her. She doesn't want to tell Will those parts, though. She doesn't understand it herself. Whether it was an act, or whether, once again, somebody who'd cared about her had decided to kill her.

She doesn't really know which would be better, and maybe if she did she'd be able to talk about it. But she doesn't.]

And then he... he knocked me out. I didn't... however he did it, I was unconscious already. I don't remember actually -- but I knew he was going to.... He told me he was.

I didn't... I didn't know if you knew. I thought you still... still trusted him, still...

[...anything. She didn't know any of it, if he'd even known what had happened to her. She knows he was sick and he got better, but she didn't even know if he got better here or at home.]

Blurred edges, definitions that don't fit to textbook precision. I take your meaning.

[ What is with this guy and food? ]

I am familiar with some of what you speak of -- preoccupation with fire, disinhibition, a certain degree of calculated carelessness for risk? A commonality of traits often found among the particularly disdainful.

From your descriptions (and at the folly of falling into precisely the trap which you warn against) I would not be inclined to describe Crouch as an intelligent psychopath. I lack your understanding and experience, and trust you will come to your own verdict.

[ If I can help it. I wouldn't appreciate it being done to me. I wouldn't go out of my way. He reads you loud and clear. ]

Thank you for the explanation, Mr. Graham.

[He knew already. He knew it had to be one of them. Lecter said it himself. Whoever killed her killed the others, and there was no way Will would have killed her, even if he had the vivid memory of impaling her on antlers in the home of her father who never served her properly. What a horrible life for Abigail Hobbs.

And he had only made it worse. Dragged her into his own sick world while trying to pull her out of hers. It might have been better if she'd stayed away. If he and Lecter had refused to speak with her. Had left her to the care of others and...

Too late now.]

I don't trust him, Abigail. I didn't trust him when we met. But he's very good at making you trust him, even if you have suspicions about him. [He made Will feel good, and when he'd spent his whole life feeling the opposite? It was a very easy trap to fall into. I don't care about the lives you save, I care about your life. Cared about ruining it, more accurately. He has the idea in his head that Abigail was used to get at Will, that Lecter used her like some chess piece. Disposable, even if he'd never get it back again. Bringing that up, however, isn't on the table. How would it make her feel, the thought that she was less of a person and more of a thing? She'd had enough of that.] You don't have to tell me how he did it, Abigail. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. I thought it was best we knew what we last dealt with since we're the only ones from our home here. That's all.

[Despite the overwhelming sadness and anger that he's feeling, he manages to keep his voice calm and, more importantly, strong. He can support her as long as he remains stable, works better at it. But he can't say the same thing might not happen again, and so:]

It might be better if we weren't very obvious that we knew each other before we came here. It might be better for you, because people would probably ask questions about how we met. Questions you might not want to answer. If you want to tell people what happened and how you know me, that's fine. But I have no intentions to talk about it. I'm not—I don't feel like it... [I'm not ashamed of you, but who is he to say that?] ...a young woman going off to college who knows someone with my job, it might make people think the wrong thing.

[It's all for her. She won't have to confess about how she knows him. She won't have to deal with seeing his face when he's brought up in conversation. She won't have to talk about her father. About dying and being brought back to life only to die again.

He couldn't stop her from talking to Freddie Lounds, and he can't stop her from talking to anyone here. He hopes that she takes this chance to leave that behind and not discuss the Minnesota Shrike with anyone. Hopes.]

Edited 2014-02-09 22:02 (UTC)

[What isn't with this guy and food, really.]

Preoccupations with fire are common. Does damage but doesn't exactly dirty hands. A foul move, and deadly, but it makes it more difficult to track which fingers are covered in that dirt and blood. Easy to blame it on a malfunctioning device in whatever sort of thing goes up in flames. I've seen it happen more often than I'd like.

[And for worse purposes.]

Crouch, from what I've read, wouldn't count as intelligent. If he was intelligent, he wouldn't be following anyone. He wouldn't need anyone else to encourage him to act on his lack of stability. He wouldn't need to be part of a group. None of them would. It could be brainwashing, it could be a desire to "fit in" with someone, it could be a lot of things. Sure, there is intelligence in those who follow such people, but the more intelligent don't usually last long. They get taken out as threats or have the smarts to get out of it in one way or another before they get taken out of the picture entirely. Blindly following hardly seems intelligent unless it was something like capture-bonding, and that doesn't seem to be the case. (Capture-bonding is the idea that someone who is kidnapped does what they can to bond with their captor in the hopes of coming out as unscathed as possible. They do what they feel they must in order to survive. Sometimes this leads to less happy scenarios, such as the victims being rescued but having developed what they view as genuine feelings for their captors and begging them not be judged too harshly or to be left with them. Falling in love with them, etc. He's not in love with him, is he?) I'll be doing some looking into it and coming to my own verdict, yes. It gives me something to do here. Why not. You're welcome, Mr. Dumbledore. Did you still have that scramble recipe? That songbird has a nest full of eggs.

[C8

C8

C8]

Edited 2014-02-09 22:23 (UTC)

[ In honour of the god centering on love being a giant frilly prissypants, Loki sends his own little gift just a few hours after hers.

His box of chocolate will look, smell, and taste exactly like Freya's did, appearing right next to where Freya's was or is if you haven't picked it up yet. The only difference between the two is that Loki's won't lift your mood; it'll give you loud and embarrassing flatulence for the next three hours.

It's also accompanied by a note. ]

Where joy might bring about yearning, it also welcomes wonder.

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IC Contact [Asgard]

private text; disregard deleted comments i suck cocks

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keywords tho

i'm prides

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Re: and dave crowl on the drums

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[morning of day 397] [audio]

audio forever, etc.

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backdated to Day 400